


so you can keep the memories

by dzzyondreams



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Sex Tapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:38:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dzzyondreams/pseuds/dzzyondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete convinces Patrick to make a sex tape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so you can keep the memories

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I was blocked on apparently everything in WIP folder, and as we all know, the answer to writer's block is porn. Thanks to melusina for the beta! Any remaining mistakes are my own (but you can totally point them out to me, that's okay, I promise).

“Are you sure?” asks Patrick, glancing up to where Pete’s involved in some last-minute adjustments.  He powers his phone off, then Pete’s, and sets them on the bedside table.  His laptop is already closed and sitting on the dresser with Pete’s right next to it, both of them temporarily relieved of their wifi connection.  A flash drive sits between them.  Patrick thinks everything is ready but what if there’s something he forgot, something he didn’t think of—

“Are you?” Pete asks, looking up from the screen and at Patrick.  Patrick crosses his arms self-consciously; he’s not unclothed, but he feels close enough in his light tee and shorts.  

“I said yes,” he replies.  “So just, like, come on.”  

“You’re allowed to change your mind,” says Pete.  He walks over to the bed and sits down by Patrick, leaning in to give him a brief kiss.  “It’s not going to do either of us any good if you’re not into it.”

“I’m not sure it’s going to do me any good anyway,” says Patrick, but he laces his fingers through Pete’s and pulls him in for another kiss.  Pete lingers, in no hurry to leave Patrick behind even if it’s only for a few moments.  “I’ll be fine,” Patrick mutters eventually, into the space between their lips.  “Just don’t let me think about it too much.”

Pete chuckles.  “I doubt you’ll have time,” he promises.  “Here, lay back for a second, I just want to check…“

Patrick does as he’s told, closing his eyes so he can’t see what Pete’s doing.  Not seeing isn’t the same as not knowing, but mostly Patrick just has to wait for Pete to get everything set and then it’ll be fine, it’ll all be fine.

“Aren’t you done yet?” he asks, cracking open an eyelid and then sitting up fully when Pete doesn’t answer.  “Pete, it doesn’t have to be perfect, get your ass over here.”  

“Yes it does,” says Pete, messing with the tilt.  “I only get to do this once.”

“You won’t get to do it at all if you don’t hurry,” says Patrick.  They both know it’s an empty threat.  

Pete smirks at him from behind the camera.  “Then stop making me all hot and bothered,” he says.  “My hands get shaky.”

“You have a fucking tripod,” says Patrick.  “Anyhow, I’m not doing anything.”

He briefly considers trying to persuade Pete to come join him—start with a slow strip maybe, because Pete always tells Patrick he could make a living at it no matter how ridiculous that notion is; then he could lay back, legs splayed, and stroke himself, finger himself, beg Pete to come on and fuck him already.  On the other hand, doing that might just persuade Pete to stay where he is so he can catch the whole thing on camera.  If they’re going to do this thing, it’s going to be both of them.

“Impatient,” says Pete, still smirking as if he knows what Patrick is thinking.  “Fucking gorgeous.”

Just when Patrick’s about to get up and show him _fucking gorgeous_ , Pete leaves the camera behind and makes his way over to Patrick again.  “Now you have me at your mercy,” he says.  

Patrick fists a hand in Pete’s shirt and yanks him in for a kiss.  Pete almost loses his balance, finds it at the last second with a hand on Patrick’s knee that starts inching up his thigh as soon as Pete’s steady again.

“Fuck,” he mutters into Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick’s aware that he’s maybe skipped ahead a few steps, that’s he’s being over-eager, but he just wants to do this—he wasn’t kidding when he told Pete to distract him, because if he starts thinking of the fact that whatever they do is going to be caught on tape forever, he’s not going to be able to stop.    

It’s a good thing Pete knows Patrick so well, because he gets what Patrick needs without Patrick having to say it—he doesn’t push, even though he’s been half-hard since he got the camera set.  He doesn’t even try to subtly get a hand down his pants while he’s waiting for Patrick to catch up.  He just sits there and kisses Patrick until he decides they really ought to be more horizontal for this thing.  Pete even lets Patrick make the move to strip him of his shirt and he doesn’t get all grabby like he’s prone to when Patrick’s modesty gets the better of him.  It’s nice, and Patrick appreciates the effort, but he’s also aware that he’s going to have to undress at some point.  When he pulls off his shirt he tells himself that it’s okay, it’s just for Pete, nobody else is going to see.  

“God,” Pete says.  “C’mere, I wanna…”  

Patrick grabs Pete’s wrist before his touch connects.  “Suck me?” he asks.  There’s no way his shirt had hidden the way his cock is tenting his boxers, but it still seems more obvious now.  Patrick needs something to take the edge off.  Something to make him stop thinking.  

“Yeah,” says Pete, hands already working at Patrick’s waistband.  “Yes.”

Maybe the reason Patrick can’t see himself ever watching this is because sex is inherently awkward—and sure, it doesn’t matter while you’re doing it, but there’s a certain level of physical involvement there.  The two of them aren’t filming this in a studio with professionals there to choreograph their every move and get all the right shots so it looks hot later.  It’s just them in their bedroom with a camera and a tripod, and they’re going to end up with what they shoot; Pete trying to pull Patrick’s shorts down and off while Patrick is sitting on the bed and then some ensuing swear words and rearrangement until Patrick is sitting there naked, skin probably prickling more from exposure than from actual cold.  

“Pete,” says Patrick; it’s not a request, but not really a command either.  Mostly reassurance, Patrick thinks.   

“Yeah, baby,” says Pete, nuzzling at Patrick’s thigh and giving it a small nip.  Patrick’s breath catches in his throat.

“Pete,” he says again, this time a bit firmer than before.  He cups Pete’s cheek in his hand and guides Pete toward his cock.  

“So pushy,” Pete mutters.  “I got you.”  

Before Patrick can protest that Pete does not, in fact, have him, Pete sucks the tip of Patrick’s cock into his mouth and Patrick pretty much forgets every snarky thought that was running through his head.

Pete’s good at giving head—good at it in general, Patrick’s pretty sure, because he’d been taken Patrick apart in seconds the first time (or maybe that’s just how desperate Patrick was to have it, to have him, to make Pete his).  But also there’s the fact that Pete has learned every little thing that drives Patrick crazy and uses them in sequence and Patrick hasn’t ever actually cried during sex but if he ever did, the blame would probably rest one hundred percent on Pete.  Most of the time, Pete just has the effect of making him very vocal; Patrick’s never thought of himself as being someone who’s particularly loud during sex, but it just seems to happen that Pete does something and Patrick opens his mouth to breathe but instead ends up groaning Pete’s name, begging him for more, yelling his way through orgasm.

“Fuck,” he hears himself exhale as Pete takes him in deep while playing with his balls, “oh, oh, Pete, oh god.”  It’s so tempting to move his hand to the back of Pete’s head and hold him there while fucking his mouth, but Patrick resists.  He wants to make this last.  Pete’s apparently not so dedicated to taking it slow, because he carefully pinches the skin of Patrick’s thigh even though he knows that’s playing dirty.  The word that comes out of Patrick’s mouth isn’t in English, or any other language he knows.  Pete does it again.

The third time, Patrick can’t help the way his hips jerk forward into Pete’s face as the sting rushes through him; the fourth and the fifth come in quick succession after that, and Patrick knows he’s going to have a string of bruises down his thigh tomorrow.  “Wait,” he manages to choke out before Pete can add to it.  “Pete, hang on.”  

Between that and Patrick insistently pushing at Pete, Pete gets the hint and pulls off.  When he looks up at Patrick it’s too much all over again.  “What’s up, baby,” he asks, his mouth obscenely wet and pouty.  It takes all of Patrick’s willpower to not give in right then and pull Pete forward again and who cares about waiting.

“I,” Patrick tries.  “I want…”  He can’t quite put words to it; sentences take an awful lot of brainpower.  

“Anything,” Pete says, reiterating his promise from when they planned this whole thing.  “Whatever you say.”  His eyes flutter closed for a second as he takes a deep breath.  If Patrick ever wanted anything of them on film this would be it—the way Pete looks when he’s desperately trying to keep his cool.  Beyond that, it’s all guesswork for him.

Patrick supposes he should have thought this through instead of trying to forget about it until it happened.  Anything is an awfully big window, or at least it seems like it when Patrick doesn’t consider the fact that it’s always on the table.  It’s just that Pete normally doesn’t say it.  

“Get naked,” he says at last, because it seems like as good a place to start as any.  “Let me see you.”  

Pete shimmies out of his briefs and kicks them to the side, staring up at Patrick for further instruction.  “I want to see you,” Patrick repeats, pushing at Pete until he rolls over onto his back.  “Yeah, yes, there.”  He takes a moment to just look at Pete, to revel in it.  Pete trails a hand down his chest but Patrick intercepts it before it gets anywhere.  “Mine,” he says, pressing a kiss to Pete’s palm.  “Be patient.”  

“Do something,” Pete says, which is probably a fair request.  Patrick spreads Pete’s legs and settles in between them, then bends down to kiss Pete.  Immediately, Pete’s hands find Patrick and try to pull him closer.  Patrick resists until Pete’s arching his hips off the bed looking for contact that wouldn’t be enough anyway; he considers pinning Pete down with his body weight and rubbing off against him, but that seems too easy.  

“So desperate,” he whispers, biting the curve of Pete’s jaw.

“Yes, fuck, need you,” Pete pants out.  “Please please please.”

Patrick’s only response is to suck a mark into Pete’s neck.  He normally wouldn’t—between Pete’s selfie habit and all the publicity they have to do, it’s not a good idea—but Patrick’s fairly certain they don’t have any interviews for at least a week.  And if Pete feels the need to post to Instagram, well, he can find an angle that doesn’t show it.  Pete doesn’t protest, either; he yelps at the first press of teeth, but his hand comes up to rest on Patrick’s neck, a silent _don’t stop_.  Patrick moves down a half inch and does it again, just to humor him.  Pete jerks under him helplessly.

“Shh,” Patrick says, shifting a hand down to press Pete’s hips into the bed.  “‘m right here.”  He drops one last kiss on Pete’s neck and then relocates his attention to Pete’s nipples, earning another jerk of Pete’s hips.  Pete isn’t really talking anymore, just making a million little noises that Patrick hopes the microphone is picking up.  He wants to keep Pete like this forever.  Since that’s sort of an impossibility, he chooses the next best option, which is to work his way down Pete’s body until he can suck the tip of Pete’s cock into his mouth.  

“Fuck,” Pete whimpers, helplessly bucking up into it.  Pete’s always been the guy to take a mile if you give him anything, so Patrick pulls off until Pete gets under control.  He doesn’t want this to end after thirty seconds of Pete frantically bucking up into his touch.  “Fuck,” Pete says again, hands scrabbling at the sheets.  Patrick watches the muscles in Pete’s stomach flexing as he tries to rein himself in.

“So good,” says Patrick once Pete has settled again, leaning in to tongue at the tip of Pete’s dick again.  This time there’s only the littlest twitch of the hips from Pete.  “So good.”  Patrick drags his tongue down the underside of Pete’s dick and mouths at his balls, enjoying the way Pete can’t stop gasping and swearing with each touch of his tongue.  

“You’re so hot,” Pete keeps saying, “so fucking hot,” and when Patrick takes Pete in his mouth again Pete falls speechless for a moment.  Patrick holds Pete down as he bobs his head, taking Pete in as deep as he can.  “Oh oh oh,” Pete’s saying, voice apparently having returned, “oh, so good, so good, love you.”  

Patrick finds Pete endlessly attractive like this—not that he doesn’t find Pete endlessly attractive regardless, but it hits especially when he’s this desperate, covered in a faint sheen of sweat, fighting to keep control and losing fifty times a second.  It’s all he can do to keep from touching himself, but he wants Pete to do that.  Later.  Soon.  

“Look at me,” he says, when Pete’s eyes fall closed.  

“Watch it later,” Pete gasps out, as Patrick mouths at his hip.  “’s the idea.”  

And—okay—Patrick keeps trying not to think about that fact but fuck it, if they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it goddamn right.  “Move,” he says sitting up, “fuck Pete, I need—you need—“ he directs as best he can by tugging on Pete’s leg, but it turns out that’s not very effective.

“What?” Pete asks, sitting up on his elbows.  “Babe, I—?”

“C’mere,” says Patrick; Pete sits all the way up and kisses Patrick’s nose because he knows he can get away with it.  Patrick doesn’t swat him away like normal, just nudges at Pete’s leg until he bends his fucking knee, which maybe he would have done earlier if he wasn’t so distracted trying to lay one on Patrick.  Whatever, Patrick can forgive him.

“You gotta,” says Patrick, trying to telepathically indicate to Pete where he needs to go.  Pete eventually catches on to the fact that Patrick’s tugging on him for a reason and shifts, looking at Patrick with a bemusement.  “There, better,” Patrick says, glancing up at the camera to make sure they’re where he wants them.  “Better angle.”  He shoves lightly at Pete so they can pick up where they left off, but Pete pulls Patrick in for a kiss instead.  

“Thank you,” he whispers against Patrick’s lips, taking his time rather than kissing with the fierce desperation Patrick had expected.  “Best boyfriend ever.”  

“Mmm,” says Patrick, “I’m gonna use that against you now, you know that, right?”

Pete’s laugh tumbles out as he leans back, stretched out against the bed like some ethereal specimen.  A figure from a Pre-Raphealite painting; the hero of Romantic literature.  Nothing that could possibly exist in the world Patrick inhabits.  

“You look so beautiful,” Patrick half-whispers, placing his hands once again on Pete’s hips before going down on him.  Pete gasps as Patrick works him over, swallowing around his dick only to pull off again and tease at the tip with his tongue.  “Gonna make it good,” Patrick promises before Pete can complain, licking his way down Pete’s shaft to tongue at his balls once more, then venturing back further.  

Pete makes a choked noise when Patrick slides his hands around to cant Pete’s hips up and spread him open before licking at his hole.  This wasn’t in Patrick’s plan at all but with the way Pete’s squirming, it’s a welcome improvisation.  Pete whines when Patrick pulls back.

“Can I fuck you?” Patrick asks.  

“Yes,” Pete says, somehow drawing the word out into three, four syllables.  “Do it do it do it.”  

Patrick smooths a hand over Pete’s leg, pushing it back toward the bed.  “Yeah, babe.  I just.  Lube.”  Patrick makes his hand come to a rest on his thigh to keep from touching himself.  Soon.  

Pete flails an arm toward the bedside table, eventually pulling himself up enough to secure it, and tosses it at Patrick.  “Now,” he says, settling back down, legs splayed on either side of Patrick.  “Do me now.”  

Patrick just pops the cap on the lube and slicks up his fingers.  “Bossy,” he remarks, before teasing at Pete’s entrance with his tongue once more.  The room is filled with Pete’s swears as he pushes back into it.  Patrick lets him struggle for it for maybe half a minute before he slides a finger in.  Pete grunts and grinds down on it, though it’s not enough to do anything for him, and Patrick adds another one to help him out.  He thinks that if they were doing this all the way, the way he knows would be a terrible idea, they’d get another camera to do a close up of Patrick’s tongue and fingers working at Pete.  Pete would like that, and Patrick—

Fuck, Patrick is way too turned on to be making any sort of decisions.  He slips a third finger in and revels in Pete’s groan.  “Do me,” Pete says again, too breathy for it to sound like any sort of a command.  “Please do me please—“  He shoves himself back onto Patrick’s fingers, arching as they hit his prostate.  “Fuck, Trick.”  The roll of Pete’s hips, the flex of the muscles in his leg are mesmerizing as Pete fucks himself on Patrick’s fingers.  Patrick can’t help but lean over and suck the tip of Pete’s dick into his mouth again.  

Pete keens.  “Fuck, can’t,” he says, “can’t can’t can’t Trick too much I can’t.”  His hips stutter, proving his point, and Patrick backs off to let him cool down.  Pete lets out a whimper at the sudden lack of hands and mouth on him, but his eyes flutter closed as he tries to compose himself.  

Patrick takes advantage of the break to lube himself up and barely stifles the moan that threatens to come out at how good the contact feels.  It must have been months, years since somebody touched him.  At least soon he’ll have Pete—and that’s what Patrick thinks of as he strokes himself, biting his lip and staring at the camera through lidded eyes.  “Shit,” he says, bucking his hips up into his fist.  “So hot.”  He’s talking as much to the Pete who will be watching this later as to the Pete who inhales sharply when he opens his eyes.  

“You want me?” Patrick asks, not taking his eyes off the camera.

“Please,” Pete begs, and Patrick might have to watch this at some point just to see what Pete looks like watching him; “Please.”

At last Patrick looks down at Pete, flushed and eager, tilting his hips up in invitation.  “Okay,” says Patrick, a tad more breathless than usual. “All right, got you.”  He lines up and pushes in, his goal of slow and steady somewhat undermined by the way Pete won’t stay still.  It’s so hard, so hard to keep a steady rhythm with Pete urging him forward so desperately, and Patrick breaks much sooner than he means to, slamming into Pete for all he’s worth.  Thirty seconds in and Pete’s not even capable of using words anymore; Patrick’s gasps turn into grunts that mingle with Pete’s moans.  Patrick’s slick with sweat, has maybe a minute until his arms start shaking if he’s lucky.  There is nothing beyond Pete hot and tight around him and Patrick tries to breathe deep and hold on.  Pete’s doing the same, head thrown back, hand curling and uncurling on his belly like he knows the minute he touches himself it’s going to be all over.  

“Don’t,” Patrick would say if he had enough breath, but Pete must know because his hand stays where it is until the moment his hips arch upward and he comes with a shout.  

“Shit,” Patrick breathes, because how often does Pete come without anyone even touching him?—but the next second Patrick’s hips are stuttering against Pete’s as his orgasm overrides any critical thinking skills he might have.  

Patrick pulls out and flops down on the bed next to Pete.  For a second there’s nothing but the sound of them breathing.  Pete reaches over and combs Patrick’s sweaty bangs off his forehead.

“Ngrah,” Patrick says, waving a hand in a gesture that he hopes means, “one of us should turn off the camera.”

“I got you,” says Pete, rolling on his side so he can kiss Patrick.  Ambitious of him, as it turns out, because all Patrick’s really capable of is breathing, and only barely that.  “Love you,” Pete whispers into his lips.  “Thank you.”  Patrick’s breath comes back to him bit by bit until he’s present enough to respond to each press of Pete’s mouth against his.  Pete is coordinated enough to put his arms around Patrick and hold him, no doubt smearing sweat and come and lube on even more parts of their bodies, so Patrick figures Pete is probably coordinated enough to stand up as well.

“Camera,” he says, when his breathing is back to normal, “Pete, the camera.”

“The camera loves you,” say Pete.  “The camera should stay on for ever and ever, especially if you fuck me like that every time.”  

“That sounds boring,” says Patrick. “Y’know.  Relatively.”  

“You know what I mean,” says Pete.  He doesn’t move.  Patrick attempts to throw an elbow because Pete usually responds to those, but they’re not really at an angle for it at all.  

“Camera,” Patrick says again.  “Or—or you owe me whatever.”

“Done,” says Pete.  “I owe you whatever, for the rest of your life.  How long do you think it is until you can go again?”

“Eternity,” says Patrick, “if you don’t turn the goddamn camera off.”  

Pete makes a sad noise in his throat.  “Can I at least get one last shot of you like this?” he asks.  

“What?”  Pete has five million shots of him like this now and Patrick doesn’t know how he can need more.  Then again, Pete always seems to need more when it comes to Patrick just like Patrick always needs more when it comes to Pete.  

Pete pushes out of bed and walks over to the tripod.  “Please?  Just.  On your back.”  Patrick complies, staring into the camera as Pete does a pan down his body.  “Hey,” says Pete, “hey, maybe you could do one of those pinup poses—“

Patrick flips him off, trying to hold back a grin.  Pete, the fucker, doesn’t even try not to laugh.  “Okay,” he says, powering off the camera and taking it off the tripod.  “No more camera.  Memory card is going on top of your computer, don’t lose it.”

Patrick takes a deep breath.  “Okay.”  

When Pete stretches out on the bed again, he tilts Patrick’s face up so he can see it fully.  “Are you okay?” he asks, “Or are you freaking?”

“I’m fine,” says Patrick, because his heart rate is mostly calm.  “I’m not—it’s just, Pete, it only takes one person…”

“Hey,” Pete cuts him off, “it’s gonna be okay.  We talked about this?  We have a plan.  And dude, I promise, even state secrets aren’t guarded this closely.”  His hand is running a convincingly soothing route up and down Patrick’s arm, so Patrick considers it.

“They so are,” he says, at last.  

“No, dude, how do you think the CIA works without Internet?” says Pete.  “It’s cool.  Your ass is officially more secret than any classified information the government has.”  He pauses.  “Totally hotter, too.”  Patrick tries to hide his grin because Pete doesn’t need to know his stupid compliments are working, but Pete sees it anyway.  “Hey,” he says, “when we watch it, you’ll see what I mean.”  

“I never agreed to that part,” says Patrick.  Pete just looks at him with sad eyes.  “I’m not saying I didn’t—the sex was good, Pete,” he says.  “It was really good, but you know that I…”

“I know,” says Pete, squeezing his hand.  “But give it a try maybe?  You might like it.”  Before Patrick can think of a response to that, Pete leans even closer and whispers, “I’ll give you whatever you want if you do.”  

“You realize that’s not going to work forever, right?” asks Patrick.  “Like, there are diminishing returns on that offer.  And you’ve already made it more than once.”

“Yeah, but,” says Pete, “you haven’t stopped saying yes.  So I’m not out of luck yet.”

“Didn’t anyone ever—“ Patrick has to stop to fight off a yawn—“ever tell you to not push your luck?  Especially when you had good things?”

“Maybe,” says Pete.  “But you make me lucky, dude.  ’s not gonna go away.  So that’s why I can keep making that offer, ‘cause you’re always gonna say yes.”  

That’s an unfair characterization, Patrick thinks, because he doesn’t always say yes—it’s just this time, and a few others, really.  He can say no to Pete.  The fact that he usually doesn’t want to—well, that’s irrelevant.  “You don’t know that,” he says, because he’s stubborn.  

“I do,” says Pete.  “But it’s okay.  You don’t have to tell me just yet.”

“Fuck you,” Patrick says, somewhat undermining his words with the way he snuggles more thoroughly into Pete.  Pete might be learning, because he keeps his mouth shut for once and rearranges so Patrick’s more comfortable.  “Fine,” Patrick whispers, half-hoping Pete will miss it.  “But you owe me so big.”

“Anything you want,” Pete promises, with a smirk.  “Love you.”  

That right there covers most of Patrick’s list, but it doesn’t seem like such a blow.  “Love you too,” he says, mildly aware that he’s losing whatever game they’re playing.  “Asshole.”

Pete laughs and kisses him until everything else in his head is gone, gone, gone and the only thing left is them. 


End file.
